The Houseguests

THE HOUSEGUESTS
Kindly, lend me some of your time.
I have a tale to tell in rhyme
About a friend of mine named Joe,
And of what caused his mind to blow.

It happened on a balmy day
That in Joe’s house two flies did play.
Coupled as one, they grossly flew.
Joe’s anger rose; his temper grew.

They zipped and zinged; they soared and swooped;
They zigged and zagged; they loop-de-looped;
They whisked and whizzed about Joe’s head.
True it was he wished them dead.

They landed on the TV set.
Joe rolled tightly the day’s Gazette.
With weapon held at the ready,
He crept toward them, slow and steady.

On tippy-toes, Joe neared the two.
Certain was he, they had no clue
That they were about to get whacked:
The victims of sudden impact.

Joe swung his weapon with such force,
That its sting would have floored a horse.
But all he whacked was the TV.
The flies buzzed-off: unharmed and free.

From here to there Joe chased the two,
But stubbornly, they would not shoo.
They dashed and darted, then touched-down
Atop a Lladro circus clown.

On the piece, they flitted about.
Their end was near, Joe had no doubt.
With a swish, the Gazette’s stiff blow
Killed not the flies, but the Lladro.

Into the kitchen, the pair flew,
Followed by Joe determined to
Annihilate and pulverize
Those nasty, filthy, no-good flies.

Joe saw the flies dancing against
A windowpane, and so commenced
His third attempt to kill those pests:
The most repulsive of houseguests.

It so happened that on that day
A can of non-stick cooking spray
Sat on the counter close to where
Those nasties danced without a care.

Catching sight of the cooking spray,
Joe changed strategy straight away.
Instead of swatting the vile two,
He’d coat them with some non-stick goo.

Holding the can with a firm grip,
Joe fixed his aim and pressed the tip.
But alas, and to his surprise,
He shot the stuff into his eyes.

With smarting eyes and vision blurred,
What Joe did next may sound absurd.
He threw the can of non-stick spray
At the flies who were still at play.

The spray can missed the playful pair,
But left the pane in disrepair.
As shattered glass fell to the floor,
The flies escaped Joe’s wrath once more.

Joe was so mad he could spit nails;
His mind was falling off the rails.
Then, a light bulb flashed in Joe’s head:
Salvation lay under his bed.

With a mindset to never quit,
Joe skedaddled, lickety-split
To retrieve from under his bed
What he needed to make flies dead.

The thought of doing those flies in
Brought to Joe’s face a Grinch-like grin.
The time had come for some hot fun:
Joe left his room with a shotgun.

Just as a hunter stalking prey
Joe edged forward without delay.
From above on a ceiling fan
The flies observed the crazy man.

Joe did not see where the flies went,
But they were close: he smelled their scent.
Downshifting into passive gear,
He spoke wryly so they may hear:

“Come out, come out, my little friends.
Uncle Joe wants to make amends.
I promise I won’t harm you two…
Like hell, I won’t! Now, where are you?”

Joe searched his house both to and fro.
Joe searched each room both high and low,
But the couple he did not spot:
Those flying germs he could not swat.

When Joe was in another room
From the fan the two flies did zoom.
Sensing the prudent thing to do,
Out a window, the two flies flew.

For seven weeks Joe searched about
For those flies, then his mind fizzed out.
It’s sad to say, but it is true,
Joe now weaves baskets at Bellevue.

As for those nasty, filthy flies,
Not to them any quick goodbyes.
For they live still, oh, yes they do,
And one day soon will visit you.